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I think that cow-meat beef is tastier than the runny flesh of a seal as
its buck teeth wrapped around my *** like a wrist watch on a wheel
not unlike the day when a petrified Jack ***** his unmountable Jill
whose nether worldly table manners enraged pro-emperor **** who
dined on wild bison/buffalo meat broiled by vegetarian Buffalo Bill
as I'm seldom hurt by faux pain of the toe sprain, under the heels of  
God's implacable Will from which I grind like a San Juan grist mill
Reaching back,
Back to that fork
In the road
Where irreversible consequence
Hid like angina
In a dunhill bubble

And you veered left,
Smitten by the decadence of mint
And mythical circles
Blown with liberal disdain
From a camel's ****

You followed the green line
Rippling like waves
Of vintage wine
Through gomorrah

Caution blown
As a midsummers gale
Between tarred lips,
Your ship sailed
The straits of cool
From bogart to newport

If dean only knew
Nat the king
Could still be singing
Nature boy on the square,
Live

He might have spurned his spyder
And lucky strikes
For a slice of life
Beyond 24

And you might have
Veered right
At that fork in the road,
Swapping scarred consequence,
Tarred lips,
And angina
For the whole pie

~ P
(#FromTheCamelsButt)
12/24/2014
Kevin Collington Jan 2014
This is me, call me a broke *** *****
This is me, trying to make a lil figgas
I’M feeling depressed, unworthily and used
So confused stuck on which road I should choose
As I matter of fact, **** it, im done with this ****
I’m tired of this ****** thinking im a straight up *****
But don’t worry tomorrow it’ll be all said and done
Would you remember me if I got killed by a gun?
Or would you remember me as the money moocher?
The one who would rob the game with a two tone
Word on the street is I need to ******* grow up
Well to the critics who say I should chill shut the **** up
I’m just being me, living life as I should
**** ain’t real if you ain’t real in the hood
It’s because of you I feel like I can conquer the world
It had nothing to do with you becoming a part of my world
I had never been to D.C., OR to V.A., NONE OF THOSE PARTS
I just found someone who gave me a change of heart
Then you say I lied to you but I had to please forgive me
My heart’s been stomped to the ground like Kirk, b
No type of Franklins, just stuck on Aretha
****** called me a loose **** with a severed Urethra
Which means my main vein is damaged, but I know you mean well
How can such a heavenly body cause me so much HELL?
Y’all hear what y’all hear but the sugar daddy blocking it
I deal with colostomy bags often, ******* full of ****
Thirty Three years  so wise so cold
So ill so real so ****** so bold
Still I press forward to beat of my drum
Marching forward to my death Tommy Strong in my song
And I know I fail hard but what else is it to do?
I’ve been looking for something stable for a year or two
Feel like my momma don’t love me so I keep my enemies closer
Sometimes I feel closer to that mu’****** holster
Kiss my girl goodbye tell my daddy I love him
Tell my sis thanks for everything tell my haters **** em
Tell the police don’t shoot, because that’ll ruin it all
Shoot myself thru the nuts and say I had a ball
Then I chopped my **** off since I’m a *******
Shove my **** in your mouth now I’m a *******
And since ****** think im ***** I’ll just grow a ******
Or take a thousand pills until I have an angina
I’m done with the game so Ima bleed what he is
Ima walking talking toilet so I must be the ****
And when I die, bury me on the last train to Paris
Next to Bugs Bunny’s Corpse and basket full of carrots
**** it im outtie my spaceship is waiting
I’ll leave you devils here on EARTH TO DEAL WITH SATAN.
In the meantime in the Állos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalå. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalå turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of AĂŻdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diĂĄdocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefĂĄnes ibix, or Aros de Ă­biz, as nano kvantikoĂ­ daktĂœlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imnĂ­biz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diĂĄdocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,
 it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

EtrĂ©stles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,
 he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral
 ”.

Vernarth replies: “EtrĂ©stles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos
, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalå. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diådocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diådocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.
Wonthelimar Ultramundi
Us/you/I* swaying on the spiralling
star-smudged staircase
that leads to the evanescent
crescendo of the sun.
Synchronously//Contemporaneously,
the moon subsisting in her shadow,
spills ashen white light ray
andlimn her initials,
across *the somber sky.
MateuĆĄ Conrad Nov 2015
indeed shakespeare, the world's a stage, but give me
the stage and not the world, give me the actor's proper
compass to define himself in the stage without
the onslaught that bothered nietzsche: imagine speaking
for the entire humanity. i have one for one, where the
"actor" owns the stage, but cares little for the world
in which things are acted according to heidegger's da sein.

inside a room sits a man, reading aloud canto xxxviii,
taking in the funny parts... with ezra's specified decor
of the trilling r, the lip numbing vibrating of m and half m (n),
just to don the evening jacket pipe and waistcoat...
all the way from idaho... losing the accent of course...
like me from the backside of poland, although nearby
the signing of the treaty of *lublin
(1569)...
so there he is, sitting like a crow with a crown,
or a crown that's a crow, hunched, nonetheless eager to enjoin
with the surrounding choirs...
in the room hÀndel's tecum principium (psalm 110) -
if hÀndel never bothered to expatriate to
england... we'd only be left with elgar and
vaughan williams as the sole exports... what shame...
here's to the fireworks! in the room this scene... but outside
a first movement of ηoλÎčΎΔς by franck...
so indeed the voodoo ****** needed for the giggle
from canto xxxviii (contrary
to what was suggested, and the suggestion
was that i could enjoy music & poetry
as much as i am now with a woman,
to prevent the waterfall from mt. ****,
the boredom, the scaly crocodile the
erasing ink of octopi... all that with a hope
for censored ****... and children and the absence
of private thinking... to appreciate it once is
not enough... and with woman of choice
only one account holds sway... tear jerker at the opera
and furthering this withstanding joy at beauty...
perhaps knowledgeable with an operatic spouse,
but no step further... in that great foundation
of life and grey matter... a tier below the merchant...
the buyer... the exchange of rotten deeds for
glistening goods - with woman the scarcity of
fed inhibitions expressed in the pure inhibitions
of sentencing blissfully haloed loneliness
into the resounding exchange of thought & voice
(esp. of someone else, once written);
no, we dare not invite profanity of such
crescendos as woman is capable of to replace
the ecstasy of the violins harps and trombones...
for indeed with a woman i'd be chained to
hear the worsened sense of symphony...
and more angina or animosity for what i prize
are relevant coordinates of executed choice
that leave no wall of my vicinity cold and
ghostly as if a dialogue with someone
was necessary; but to the poignancy of the canto:
1. the cigar-makers automation requiring recitation
    to combat the capitalistic rat infestation,
    known as mechanisation / automation,
    according to dexter kimball,
2. because of a louse in berlin
    and a greasy basturd in austria
    by name francios guiseppe.
3. on account of bizschniz relations.
4. and schlossmann suggested that i stay in vienna
    as stool-pigeon against the anschluss
    because the austrians needed a buddha
5. der im baluba das gewitter gemacht hat...
6. kosouth (ku' shoot)

and i end with that... there's more but i cannot
spare not inviting this gentleman in smockings
who said:
i say... didn't the english forgo the use of
other europeans the necessary stressors of accent
to singular letters rather than words
or word compounding, all cockney ****-side-up?
i dare say those french bass tarts
put the ' over the e, and the papa turds on top
of the o... while our kin too to sharpening and shortening
things... taking 'em fo' d' fool...
so if there's direct correlation, my german compatriot
said... itz zys: diacritic of french with o and le v. la
is the english of would not with wouldn't.
now i think the modern fictional hannibal
has a mirror proper... without the mexican doctor (
cannibal etc.) but with this villager from idaho,
making it big in london and paris...
as all "little" villager folk do...
given there's less cosmopolitan conversation about
among the slapstick nobility humour scheming
and socialite consciousness with the odd dry martini -
given there's less of all that, where you can
go to sleep at 9pm, and wake with the roosters at 5am
(in summer), milk the cow, feed the hens, pluck an organic
tomato... and get excite about village traffic - tumble weeds
speeding, ol' mcdonald wrote a poem:
a tad bit cornish, nonetheless, the sort of nourishment
that redeems.
LJW Jun 2014
The patterns
of rainfall and afforestation,
the veins of village streams—
I colored them in
as I saw fit.

My beloved spiders
wove a second pattern
on top,
which I approved
before leaving.





GĂŒnter Eich (1907–1972) was a noted German poet and radio dramatist who won the Georg BĂŒchner Preis in 1959. His translator, Michael Hofmann, is a poet and German translator; his versions of Eich will be out soon in book form in Angina Days: Selected Poems of GĂŒnter Eich (Princeton).
vhcgjhf Jul 2015
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes

the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on

wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades


the purpose
economized

every axiom
americanized

and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range

cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility

closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression


blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake

gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration

dying to know
forget it.
Hamma May 2017
Moon-bird alike, my life, I can't fathom
Against age ..wings flapped..under anthelia
Red knots flew west, yet... a suffer
Yarning a long journey east, here's a fairy
A blue-eyed dove cooed away angina
Made wrecks stand...florets re-blossom!
Paul Sands Apr 2015
the caffeine and preservatives served me ill
and now the air is clear enough to hear
an echo of those angina beats

the rhythm of compressed time
where mild maturity becomes entwined
in curious calamity,

cut down, boxed up,
for all to see the choke hold
slip the sterling buckle

its teeth around your stubbled throat
and nylon stained constricted waste the
filthy lack of alibi
pondering the way so many older celebrities end up dead in less than distinguished circumstances and empathising with that desire to keep it real, to keep on pushing boundaries no matter how unwise or unsavoury
I catalog events with a subtle, ulterior pretense
Describing the notorious infamy in all the events
And anything characterized, inspiring, and bold
Makes a story unfold in the real time it's told
I am snowblind and need defibrillation to wake up
Either my heart turned cold or has simply had enough

The ferry fan dreamboat has only so inadequately found
That as I feel my orienting response record the time down
It is not truly me who was looking around
Though I can pinpoint the exact moment that I drowned
The only lingering product of me absolutely remaining
Is the aftermath of my angina so ever restraining
Never complaining until the sound of the trigger
Then I'll be adamant to describe that noise with vigor
Though rigorous it may be, I will try, I might even with some tact
And let you in one last time presenting only fact.
I stepped away and left this place while presently in line
The sentence was one more time for the last time
And then you said goodbye

I was watching all the while a vapor on the scene
And I felt myself lose oxygen with no production in my spleen
My blood does not perfuse in that bilateral moment of blame
How can I let asystole clamp and constrict my cowed red vein?
How could I dilate the cause of my shame?
How could I love my life in the rain?

The simple reason I was experiencing tinitus...
I found out all connections were lies
Like a manufactured virus
Love was a prescription with doses written in ink
With no distinction and no response I could not think
With no recompense or recognition I felt my larynx shrink

I was only dumbfounded so I took to my reflexes
Handpicking a numb tendency to fill my recesses
But it only drains you and me and leaves a hole behind
I'm nowhere near magical so it's power cannot rewind
If so inclined I'll tap my spine and steer it all back
But I don't feel you anymore
*Only this heart attack
This poem is dedicated to anyone who loses a piece of themselves every time someone truly special walks away.
Miss Dan May 2018
Ischemia – the imbalance between the supply and demand of the heart for oxygenated blood. I thought it was as simple as that, but then you came and made me realize there’s a much deleterious underlying condition to it.

The risk factors for this insufficiency took various forms. Calls were left unreturned. Conversations felt dry and passive. Some plans got cancelled over minor reasons, and then arguments became too dragging to argue over. These contributed to the gradual progression and development of an irreversible process – the decreased perfusion of feelings towards one another. In more than 90% of cases, the disorder had only become clinically evident in chronic conditions, once a tally of misunderstandings outweighed the hope of having any of it substantially resolved.

The pathogenesis was an unending blame game. Initially, there was a sudden severe narrowing or closure of the large vessels. It happened to you, to us, when a plaque existed, and our relationship went atherosclerotic. You grew narrow-minded; I became hard-headed. The excessive build up of plaque caused clogging, and it blocked your thoughts into meeting mine. That’s why we argued. A lot. And it made the diagnosis incurable.   You said I had an increased demand for your time and effort, that I asked more of which you could possibly give. I, on the other hand, have claimed that it rooted from your diminished passion-carrying component. Roses, chocolates, and balloons became a compensatory mechanism for the lapses you’ve done. Until I have accustomed myself in looking at these supposedly “romantic things” as variables of pain, conflict and broken promises. I never wanted that. But I grew bitter. And you are largely responsible for my stenotic ideations of true love. The kind which loves you back when every word sends a positive chronotropic and inotropic effect? Nah, it does not exist. For now.

I felt angina, especially when a large area got affected – when I uprooted myself from deep into your life. And it was awful. Excruciating. But really, I had been cautious. My heart was enclosed by a double-layered protective sac called sanity and self-respect. I guarded myself from believing every lie, and pretended that those sweet words did not reverberate at the back of my head. But you were an exception. You penetrated the wall. And from the inside chambers, you deprived me from the love I deserved.

Your insufficiency in making me feel loved had validated the statistical claim of heart diseases as the predominant cause of mortality on Earth. You have deprived me with what I deserved, until every fiber of this muscular ***** found enclosed my rib cage had been used to the lack of care, the lack of contact, and the indifference.

Yes, you have killed me gradually, by not loving me enough. And you have left me with a necrosed, dysfunctional heart.
Published in Aletheia Vol 1 Issue AY 2013-14
Billy White Mar 2016
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes

the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on

wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades


the purpose
economized

every axiom
americanized

and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range

cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility

closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression


blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake

gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration

dying to know
forget it.
Nike Kaffezakis Sep 2010
Going through life
With no lights on.
Staring at the nebulous,
Hazy events pass by.
Waving good bye to the
Monotonous days, wasted
Time means nothing
When you sleep through it
Like looing at the world
Through smudged glasses.

I always day sleep,
Blocking out my life.
Living as if nothing ever happens
And Sometimes believing it too.
If only to cut lose the weight
Of my chronic heart pains,
The angina from the sad state
That this world is now in.
srax Mar 2020
for the pain I bear is too grim,
the heart no longer breaks,
it ruptures
One common symptom of coronary artery disease is angina, which causes pressure in your chest that can involve burning or numbness. They say it is because your heart does not get enough blood or oxygen I say it is because it has been hurt too many times.
James Bruce Oct 2016
by James Bruce

You’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re a Millard Filmore,
You’re the top!
You’re the Girls of Gilmore,
You’re lucidity’s not Huckabee’s weird views,
You’re an immigrator,
A great debator,
You’re not Ted Cruz!
You’re the style,
Of a Ronald Reagan,
You’re the smile of a foxxy Megyn,
Were you Hillary, you’d be pilloried, and flop!
But if Donald, Ailes’s the bottom, you’re the top!

You’re the top!
You’re the Wall of China,
You’re the top!
You’re acute angina,
You’re hyperbole that’s a felony in Queens,
You’re Rand Paul’s mama,
Barack Obama,
You’re full of beans!
You’re the star,
Of the G.O.P. camp,
You’re a jam on a Christie bridge ramp,
I’m a crippling loan, a Roger Stone, a flop!
But if baby, Jeb’s sunk lower, you’re the top!

You’re the top!
You’re a well-coiffed dandy,
You’re the top!
Your hair’s cotton candy,
You’re assets vast that cast a glow of Trumpf
You’re a Carly visage,
The Greenwich Village,
You’re Friedrich Drumpf!
You’re demure,
You’re a friend of pollsters,
You’re the spur on some heels with holsters
I’m not fit to race, too commonplace, a sop!
But if Donald, I’m rock bottom, you’re the top!
Let the games begin!
she didn't know where he was going,
how long he'd be gone,
only that she needed to wait
for his homecoming,
to watch for the letters he promised,
believing the sharp angina pains
stabbing her chest might
**** her during another long absence

he'd pick her up like she
weighed nothing,
willing herself to be lighter
so that he wouldn't put her down,
straddling her boney legs
around his waist,
inhaling the scent of Grey Flannel
evaporating off his soft skin

the mystery of where he went
every six months or so
was made insignificant,
"to work", as if it was just
a drive over the mountain
from Ft. Shafter instead of
some jungle Walter Cronkite
talked about on television

his letters came in red, white and blue
envelopes from APO's and HQ's,
pictures of dragons and snakes
drawn on the margins
doing nothing to alleviate
a seven year old's insecurities

then mother went to volunteer
at Tripler's burn ward
her small mind beginning
to comprehend he was in the
same place the "Uncle Sam Wants You"
signs wanted men

Walter called it the war in Vietnam
adult conversations she'd overheard
said it was big, but the sound of it
made her body shrink into a ball

Written by Sara Fielder © Sept 2014
tulika mishra Mar 2018
i'm a modern girl
and i say like it's not a bad word
it's a tag society has thrown at me
for me to feel guilty and an antagonist

so i own up to this word
with pride and prejudice
oh! now it pinches you and makes you want to call me
shameless and rude.

for all i care,
i'm a modern girl
and i say it like it's not a bad word
i wear short skirts, i dye my hair,
i ride a bike without a hint of despair,
i own tattoos and piercings in the places on my body
that will give you a heart ache
much worse than an angina pectoris.

hello, im a modern girl
and i say it again like it's not a bad word.

it's high time shame game took a turn,
your judgemental eyes shutter down with acceptance
and for gossiping to burn
because i'm just a girl
living the life i like
call it modern, call it indie
atleast i know it's not a LIE.
Olivia Kent Nov 2014
It's futile you know.
A never ending battle to fight your heart and the feelings it keeps.
It's not your heart that's in control.
It's a mere electric pump.
It has four chambers.
The secrets it keeps are absolutely none.
It stores no emotion nor feelings of pain.
Unless of course it's broken, but it's not destroyed by love and pain.
It may complain a bit if it's oxygen supply is breached, a touch of angina.
Maybe an infarct.
Perhaps it'll die.
There is no true love, not in the hearts of women or fellows.
Love is just a state of mind.
A cocktail of emotions and several crazy notions.
(C) LIVVI
But I miss it a bit **

— The End —